


Time Makes You Bolder

by genevievedarcygranger



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Animal Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Character Study, Dark, Death, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Growing Old, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Medication, Mentions of Death, One Shot, Retirement, Self-Harm, Short One Shot, Song Lyrics, Song: Landslide (Fleetwood Mac), Suicidal Thoughts, Whump, a day in the life, empty nest, mentions of animal death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29894100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genevievedarcygranger/pseuds/genevievedarcygranger
Summary: A day in the life of a retired Aaron Hotchner.
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner & Jack Hotchner
Kudos: 13





	Time Makes You Bolder

Hotch’s body woke, as it did most days, as if he weren’t retired. It woke up just before six in the morning, before any light from the morning sun could sneak its warm fingers through the tilted blinds and thin window curtains. His body woke him first with the sharp and sudden stutter of his heart, out of some misplaced fear that he slept through his alarm or some important phone call. Before his eyes were even open, Hotch was reaching for his phone. As soon as he lifted it from the dresser and it didn’t immediately buzz in his hand with any unopened notifications, he placed it back down and flopped his palm over his eyes, working his thumb and index finger into his itchy eyeballs until all of the Sandman’s sleep crackled away.

Then as the gears in his head started to turn, Hotch’s body sharply reminded him of all its aches and pains. Sleep – even as he has slept in his own bed for the past ten years – never came easy, and was never restful. It never was for the wicked. Besides, his body still held a grudge for all of those nights on shitty motel bricks-for-mattresses or curling up his six-foot two body on small jet seats or those cat-naps in his office either on the couch or on top of the desk and paperwork. He had stopped bothering to ask his body for forgiveness around the time that he started taking Tylenol like candy every morning and night. Around the time that he slept curled around on an electric heating pad by himself on the couch because his queen-sized bed was too big and lonely for himself. Around the time that he started to avoid sleep actively, never stopping the coffee pot, never without a mug nearby at least half-empty at all times.

That was the next craving from his body that Hotch finally listened to. Coffee. Even coffee won out over the need to pee, but that reminder came as soon as he was on his feet and the chill of the room slipped past his thin white T-shirt and flannel pants. With a quick pit stop at the bathroom, he took care of his business and hesitated at the sink after washing his hands.

Should he shave today? This was a question he asked himself every morning. Towards the beginning of retirement, when he was still fairly occupied as his days revolved around his son Jack instead of the sun, he always said yes. It made him feel human, and it was the face that Jack was used to.

Jack’s been gone to university for a little over two years now. Hotch grows a beard that he only shaves around holidays and weekends when Jack is expected home. Jack isn’t due home yet until spring break, another two weeks out. Hotch abruptly left the bathroom.

In the kitchen, he started the coffee pot before going to collect the newspaper. When he stepped outside, it was still cool with night, and the grass is dewy, but not visibly wet since the sun wasn’t above the horizon yet. Bending to collect the paper, he was reminded of his aches and pains. The cold was no help either.

Inside, he took his coffee with pills and muscle relaxers rather than cream and sugar. He hunched over the granite countertop to sip his breakfast and peruse the newspaper. For some reason discernable to himself and his former coworkers, he always picked the obituaries first.

Hotch spent the rest of his morning dithering around the kitchen, looking for something to do. He never had dirty dishes anymore, not because he cooked only for himself, but because he never cooked. He didn’t see a point in it. His stomach was picky with age. Nothing sat well with him, and he got nauseous easily, even with the food he craved. It never failed that halfway through a burger, he’d put it down, unable to finish. Today was yet another day that he would not eat breakfast. He’d try again at lunch.

Rather than retreating to his seldom used living room, Hotch escaped his house outside. His backyard has more plants than just grass. In the fall, he plants mums, more golden than the leaves that quickly crisp to brown. He also plants pansies, the red kind mostly, which really lets the purple New England asters shine through. In the spring, about this time, he plants the bluebells. His rosebushes thrive around this time and valiantly through the summer until autumn arrives, and he’s back to mums, pansies, and New England asters again.

One of his pet projects since Jack has left was to build a hammock. This has been an endeavor that Hotch has actively put off since he conceived of the idea. It was the ability of his body that made him procrastinate the job as much as it was the bitter reminder that he never did get around to building that tree house for Jack. The old tree that would have held it fell down in a storm when Jack was sixteen, thankfully avoiding any damage to the house. The new tree Hotch planted to replace it was a springy maple, still clingy vibrantly to its youth. At its base is where the dog Hotch got his first year of retirement for Jack is buried. It was a rescue, a mutt that Hotch found in the parking lot of a grocery store. Jack loved that old dog, and Hotch did, too.

In the backyard, Hotch sat in one of the patio chairs with his refilled coffee mug, waiting for a little more light before he starts the task of spreading out mulch. The bags are stacked up and waiting by the beds, probably way more than he needs, but Hotch would hate to take the extra trip. He doesn’t do well in public anymore.

Every time he goes out, his brain switches back to profiler mode. Cars that follow behind him in traffic a little too long are serial killers on parole, stalking him down for their revenge. Men at the grocery store who are by themselves – much like Hotch is – are family annihilators picking their targets. Women with children are sexual sadists who lure prey with those same children that beg for a treat at the check-out. Even the cashiers are just over-worked, under-paid psychopaths one trigger away from becoming murders. It makes Hotch’s hand shake, and his tachycardia reminds him that his meds are at home. Even his scars from Foyet start to itch, and he feels like everyone can see them through his layers of clothes, the suit and tie swapped out long ago for long-sleeved baggy sweaters over thermals that don’t match up with the weather. He sweats cold, but at the hairline, and he avoids eye-contact because he doesn’t want to _know_ if he’s right about any of these people. He just wants to get his coffee or mulch and go.

At home, Hotch wears sweatshirts that are so old and stained it would be shameful for him to leave the house in, so he doesn’t. Jack teases him about his wardrobe all the time, encouraging him to go buy new clothes, but Hotch just shrugs it off. He never thinks of his clothes anymore. His closet is stuffed full of suits that he never wears anymore, the blood stains absent, the dry-cleaning plastic still present. Sometimes he wonders which one he’ll be buried in. That usually reminds him to take his meds.

Around lunch time, after Hotch has spread out all the mulch and his nose was drippy with allergies, Hotch went to the kitchen for an allergy pill. He sighed and squinted at it before he takes it dry. So many pills. His phone rang in the bedroom and he rushes for it, his first thought that there is a case, and his second thought that there’s something wrong with Jack.

Of course, Jack is the one that calls, he’s the only one who every does with semi-regularity. Garcia – Penelope, now, not Garcia, but Alvez – she calls around holidays and for his birthday. Since she had her twins, her calls were a little more rushed, but she sends him cards and the cards always have pictures. He likes looking at them because he remembers when Jack was that small. Derek and Savannah send him updates on Hank, too. Hank is about the age Jack was when Hotch retired. Derek still isn’t fully retired. He flips houses, still in shape. Emily is overseas and the timing is never right for phone calls and her letters are infrequent and sparse and take too long, but that’s Emily. JJ and Will relocated to Pennsylvania where JJ was from some time after Emily’s retirement. She sent out Henry’s graduation announcements a month ago. He plans to attend William & Mary for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, Spencer’s influence. Spencer sends letters once a week, always long and detailed and as rambly as if were right in the room with Hotch. He’s a professor at Caltech currently, though he’s been thinking of a change now that he doesn’t have to stay close to the west coast anymore. His mother passed three years ago, just before Jack graduated high school. Hotch attended the funeral. And then Dave…

“Jack, is everything alright?” Hotch answered. His voice startled him with how raspy he is. When was the last time he spoke?

“Hello to you, too, Dad,” Jack’s voice was wry. “You sound like shit. The pollen bad in Virginia?”

Hotch lowered his body to unmade bed, wondering why Jack’s voice sounded so distant before he remembered to switch to it to his good ear. “No worse than Georgia, I imagine. Classes good?”

“About the same as always,” Jack sounded bored now. “I just wanted to call to check on you.”

Hotch’s mouth twitched, wanting to smile, muscle-memory not enough to follow through with it. “I thought that was my job.”

“Hasn’t been for a while.” Jack meant that he was an adult now, nearly twenty-one, but Hotch’s mind warped the perception and his hand trembled with guilt. “Come on, what’s going on with you?”

“Nothing,” Hotch robotically answered. It was the truth.

In a way that reminded Hotch of Dave – Dave who has passed, who has been gone for going on six years now – Jack hummed, “Uh huh. I think you should get another dog.”

This was a familiar conversation. For a while, Jack was resistant to the thought of another dog, his loyalty to Sam too much for him to even go to pet stores or shelters, no matter Hotch tried to convince him otherwise. Around the winter break of Jack’s freshman year, he seemed to realize that a dog would be a good babysitter for Hotch and has been pushing him to get one ever since. Now Hotch was the resistant one, citing that he was too old to be chasing puppies around or getting on his hands and knees to scrub mystery stains out of the carpet. In truth, Hotch didn’t know why he kept saying no to a dog.

“You really want me to get a dog when you’re never going to be around to see him?” Hotch pressed his lips together with regret as soon as the words left him mouth. He hadn’t been thinking of the dog when he said it. How many times does he have to remind himself that Jack has his own life now, that children grow up and they leave, that he didn’t drive Jack away?

"I will totally see the dog! I come home, don’t I? Summer break is like, less than two months away. And then summer is three whole months to bond.”

Hotch curled his toes into the carpet. “Maybe when you come home for spring break…”

"Really? You promise you won’t pick one out without me?”

“You can pick the dog, Jack. It’s fair. I picked the last.”

“More like he picked you.”

"True.”

“Anyway, I’ve been researching dogs, and I think, maybe a lab? Or, or like a dog that can be certified for emotional support?” Jack laughed then, too quick for Hotch to ask any questions. “Maybe an old dog that’s retired just like you. Old dog, new trick.”

Even though he knew that Jack couldn’t see it, Hotch smiled. “Yeah, that sounds great, Jack. Whatever you want.”


End file.
